


Let's Stay Together

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe - Medical, Best Friends, Blow Jobs, COVID nurses, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Co-workers, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Idiots in Love, M/M, Nurse Castiel (Supernatural), Nurse Dean Winchester, Nurses & Nursing, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Touch-starved COVID nurses Dean and Cas try to solve that mutual problem by platonically sleeping together, but their relationship is affected in more ways than they bargained for.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 258
Kudos: 774





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for [Sarah](https://twitter.com/nurse_curry), who sent me the awesome prompt below, as well as to all my SPNfam nursing friends who have been working their asses off during the pandemic. It is also an apology to everyone following "Break On Through" for hurting them this week, lol. Love to all of you.  
> it's only edited by me, sorry if there are any mistakes.

_There’s nothing to be freaked about, asshole._

Dean snorts and leans back against his headboard, rubbing palms dampened with nervous sweat against his bare thighs. It’s not very effective, but both he and Cas agreed on boxers while they do this, so post-shower, bare legs are all he’s got. Sure, he could put on some sweats, but that would be the coward’s way out. That, and there’s just _no fucking way_ Dean is messing up this _one,_ perfect chance to get skin-on-skin with Castiel Novak. Dean might be a sweaty, slightly flustered, complete dumbass idiot in general, but even he fully recognizes what’s at stake here. 

_But it’s really not that big of a deal_.

That’s the reasoning Dean’s mind offers and it’s what he’s sticking with, even as he tugs the bedsheet up over his lap to worry the edge between his fingers. _Fuck, why is he so anxious?_ He and Cas have been friends for years. They’ve stripped down in front of each other _tons_ of times and it’s never been weird, never changed their relationship dynamic in the least. If anything, that innate comfort with each other combined with a total and complete lack of “normal” boundaries is part of what makes their friendship so freaking awesome. 

Still, Dean can’t help but contemplate critically all of those other times, wondering if this will be different. If this—what they’re about to do—might be crossing a line in the sand they won’t so easily be able to step back over. 

He closes his eyes and tries to think. The more he wracks his brain, the larger his pool of examples for why that _won’t_ happen becomes, which shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, Dean’s been through this mental song and dance more than once already, always coming to the same conclusions. 

What those conclusions amount to is simple: _it’s not the big freaking deal Dean’s making it out to be._

For lots of reasons, but just for starters: Dean has seen Cas almost-naked more times than he’s seen the body of _any_ sexual partner he’s ever had. That’s comforting, for reasons he’s just not going to look too closely at. Settling against the headboard, Dean runs through each relevant memory he can drag up, turning them over in his head with both amusement and fond appreciation. 

There’s definitely a hell of a variety there—everything from gagging while the two of them removed vomit-covered scrubs at work, to laughing in Cas’ foyer post-paintball game as they stripped off mud-covered jeans and jackets. There was that night they went skinny-dipping in Sam’s pool after his and Eileen’s engagement party, and that one time a summer hurricane blew through and left the whole town without power for almost a week. Dean and Cas spent nearly every second of their off-work hours lounging around in boxers, drinking beer and complaining to each other about the unrelenting, oppressive heat. 

Plus, lately they’ve been, you know, _pod buddies—_ or whatever the hell it’s called—basically since this pandemic shit started. By necessity, they’ve become the only _people_ they each spend time with, at least without full PPE on or a distance of six feet in-between. Disrobing and dropping their respective scrubs directly into the laundry machine two seconds after stepping into each other’s houses isn’t even _new._

 _Yeah, alright,_ Dean decides (for the thousandth time since he and Cas talked about this crazy plan to begin with). _It’s definitely no big deal._

And then his mind drifts back to Cas himself, the Cas who is currently stark-naked and _showering_ in Dean’s ensuite bathroom right now, and his traitorous heart races.

_Cas._

Cas, Dean’s best friend in the whole wide world (besides Sam—but Sammy’s all grown up with a wife now, time to let the kid do his own thing and not be chained to Dean). He’s _Cas,_ the guy that’s been stuck to Dean’s side since the first day of new-grad orientation at the hospital where they both work as nurses. Cas, who held Dean’s hand while he learned to go from clueless nursing student to actual halfway-decent RN. Cas who was there for Dean’s first med error, his first code (unrelated to the med error, but it _did_ lead to Dean’s first real experience with the death of a patient he knew _,_ cared for, and _liked_ ), and the first time a doctor ripped him a new one for something that wasn’t his fault.

Likewise, Dean’s been there for all of Cas’ nursing firsts, too—though his were somewhat different than Dean’s. Thing is, Cas is smart as all get out, retains every ounce of knowledge he’s ever read or been taught, like a freaking computer. Dude never forgets a single lab value or a medication side effect, and he can perform every possible nursing intervention in his damn sleep—no matter how long it’s been since he’s practiced a particular thing. He’s the kind of guy that makes everyone look bad in school, but he’s a mess on the floor for that exact same reason. Nursing is all about _people_ skills, and at the end of the day, Cas has none.

That’s why they made a hell of a team right out of the gate, even if it did take Dean a couple of weeks to get over his jealousy of Cas’ mad foley insertion ability. Or the way he handled being assigned a Pleur-evac for the first time like a twenty-year veteran. Truth? Dean would trade those technical skills any day for PCAs that like and respect him, who don’t think he’s a douchebag that’s above toileting his own patients. 

Not that Cas ever thought he was—but he sure as fuck came off that way, and he struggled to unlearn acting like a pre-programmed robot and build a little bedside manner. He almost quit over it, more than once. Technique can be taught, but charm, charisma, patience, and empathy? That shit’s innate, and Dean has it in spades. At the end of the day, though, you need the whole package to make it as a nurse, which means that Dean and Cas? They _really_ needed each other.

With Dean’s help, Cas learned to be more gentle with his co-workers, less blunt with his patients, and to accept the tough reality that the textbook reasons for calling a physician do not always apply at four in the morning. In turn, Cas was faithfully present to help with any practical stuff Dean was unsure of tackling alone. He would talk him through various processes, interpret labs and double-check drug calculations on the fly, always there to hold Dean’s (non-sterile) hand when necessary. 

Off-duty, they coped with all of their various transitional frustrations by investing heavily in each other, too. Cas gave him the kind of friendship Dean always thought he’d grow to resent—the finish-each-other's-sentences, attached-at-the-hip, all-in-all-the-time kind of familial affection he’d only ever experienced with Sam. 

Except, the feelings Cas has always inspired in Dean were _anything_ but brotherly, not that he wanted to bring that up and ruin everything.

So they hung out constantly. Video games, movie nights, and a _boatload_ of alcohol at either of their houses, always with Cas by his side. That’s the way Dean’s gotten through the last four years. No one tells you in school that being a nurse never really gets easier once you’ve figured out _how_ to be one—the expectations just change. And just when you’ve gotten used to those, they change again. 

These days, Dean has a unit manager breathing down his neck, trying incessantly to goad him into signing onto the management track that the hospital offers as retention incentive. No matter how many times Dean repeats that he’s an entire world of _not_ interested, she won’t give up the ghost. Not that the program itself isn’t a good deal—paid Master’s Degree program with classes _at_ the hospital after his shift—but Dean’s got enough on his plate right now. He’d have to give up night shifts with Cas (which is just not happening), and he doubts the extra hours they’ve both been expected to pull for the last almost-year-now would suddenly disappear just because he’s got homework.

Maybe when all of this COVID shit is over, when the majority of the population has been vaccinated and just going to Walmart doesn’t feel like entering the hot zone of a Hazmat incident. Maybe when Dean and Cas aren’t having to self-isolate because six months ago their med-surg floor transformed fully into an infectious disease unit (and sometimes part-ICU) _bubble._ Maybe when Dean can feel free to drop by Sam’s on the weekend without risking infecting his entire family including two babies. Or when he can run to the liquor store after work _before_ taking a shower and changing his clothes.

Maybe when the world finds its way back to normal, Dean can think about the next logical steps in the bigger picture of his life. Right now, it’s survival first and one friggin’ day at a time. 

It’s not all bad, though. He has _Cas,_ and thank fuck for that. Lots of their friends in healthcare are self-isolating completely alone, and Dean can’t even imagine how hard that must be. Thing is, both he and Cas are touchy kinds of people. In different ways, sure, but touchy all the same. Dean prefers to get his jollies off with one-night-stands and various bar hookups, Cas is more...hugs and cuddling with friends in the booths _at_ the bar. Either way, all of that shit has been off the table since the pandemic started, and the severe _lack_ of touch is starting to take its toll on everyone. 

Can’t hug family members, can’t hug friends. Can’t even get close to co-workers—being assigned to an actual COVID unit, everyone around them is a damn risk. They can’t comfort their patients properly either, which has _really_ been weighing on Cas, a guy who worked damn hard to internalize the importance of remembering to do exactly that. 

It sucks. Anytime they _do_ touch someone, there’s plastic or clothing or a nitrile barrier in between them. Anytime they _talk_ to someone, there’s a mask (at least—probably a face shield, too, or a PAPR hood) covering half their face. It’s all just—fucking _disruptive_ to Dean’s well-being, his mental health, and he knows Cas is feeling the same.

Which is why, when Cas suggested the thing they’re here to do today, Dean—well, he freaking jumped all over it. Said “yes,” before Cas even fully finished his thought and way before thinking the implications through. Hence, all the stewing. Even now, though, after dwelling on it near- _constantly_ , Dean doesn’t want to bail. Not in the least. This whole brooding session is a lie, because nothing is going to change Dean’s mind. He _really_ fucking needs this.

Right on cue, as if he can sense Dean’s renewed resolve over this whole thing, Cas emerges from the bathroom. A cloud of steam follows behind like even _it_ finds Cas irresistible. Dean looks up from where he’s been worrying the sheet between his fingers and gulps. Reflexively, he drops his hands to his lap and shifts a little, his body’s innate reaction to a warm, clean, _damp_ Cas dressed in only his boxers and striding confidently through Dean’s _bedroom_ both expected and unavoidable. 

On the flip side, Dean’s own anxiety over Cas _seeing_ that reaction and fleeing in horror has his semi-interested dick deflating almost immediately.

Right—did he forget to mention that? This whole thing would be a _lot_ less complicated if he weren’t desperately in love with Cas, and getting worse by the day at hiding it. 

Hell, maybe Cas even knows. After all, Cas is smart as fuck and Dean is not the kind of guy who’s great at hiding any of his emotions. Besides, Cas—Cas doesn’t seem to _do_ the sex thing. Like ever, at _all._ Maybe he knows how Dean feels and just doesn't care, because it doesn’t interest him anyway. That would be unbelievably in character for Cas in general, Dean decides, wondering why the possibility never occurred to him before. 

His eyes follow Cas’ movement as he crosses the room to stand in front of the mirrored dresser, watching like a creeper as he rolls some deodorant on and sniffs. 

_This is not a big deal,_ Dean reminds himself again, even though he can’t tear his eyes away from how Cas is now rubbing _Dean’s_ towel into his dark, tousled wet hair. His bare abs flex as he moves his raised arm, and Dean is quickly realizing that he’s in _big_ trouble. Cas’ body is _crazy_ hot—ultra-toned from running and lifting weights every day, but it’s like Cas isn’t even aware of what a fucking prize he is. To make matters worse, Dean knows _firsthand—_ from getting into stupid wrestling fights in the living room that he now _greatly_ regrets—how absolutely perfect Cas’ weight feels on top of him.

Alright, now Dean’s panicking.

 _What_ the fuck _was he thinking?!_

 _This is a_ huge _deal. Nothing about this is fine._ Dean is _fucked_.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all night,” Cas admits softly, eyes focused intently on the top of Dean’s dresser, where he’s already dropped his watch and his ID badge. Both of their scrub sets are already cycling through the washer downstairs, so there’s nothing to do but get on with it, although Cas’ words make Dean and his anxiety deflate, just a little. His hopeful tone takes the panic from a ten down to a five, and Dean forces himself to breathe.

It’s a reminder of how much Cas _needs_ this—how much they _both_ do—and Dean resolves not to let his dumb attraction to his best friend get in the way of providing what little comfort they can scrounge out of this shit sandwich situation.

“Yeah?” Dean asks hopefully, relishing the way the corner of Cas’ adorable mouth ticks up in amusement. 

“Of course,” Cas replies, dropping the towel carelessly onto Dean’s floor and coming to sit down on the opposite side of the bed. He draws one leg up and faces Dean, looking for all the world like this is normal, like this is nothing new or remotely scary. It helps Dean settle even further to see that Cas is so perfectly calm, cool, and collected. He’s very clearly unburdened by anticipation over what’s about to happen, and that means that Dean has no business being worried, either. 

Of course, Cas isn’t in love with him, so there is that.

Shoving the intrusive thoughts aside, Dean takes a slow, measured breath and blows it back out before raising his eyebrows.

“So. Platonic sleeping together,” he says, just to put it out there, make sure everyone is on the same page for...reasons. 

Castiel nods. “Platonic sleeping together,” he affirms. “Plus manly cuddling. For touch reasons, I—” Castiel inhales sharply, and Dean glances over just in time to see him retract the hand he had stretched out, like he wanted to touch Dean but abruptly thought better of it. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, of course. There’s no—there’s certainly no pressure.”

If Dean didn’t know Cas so damn well, he might have missed the slight waver of uncertainty in his voice. In that second, every last reservation Dean’s been secretly harboring about this thing evaporates like dew in the midday sun. “You can touch me, Cas,” he says quickly, his own voice coming out a _lot_ more husky than expected. “This shit has been really hard, you know? For—for all of us. We deserve—”

“I’m so tired, Dean,” Castiel replies. He punctuates his words by slumping bonelessly against the headboard and Dean’s pillows, and Dean completely gets it. Cas isn’t really talking about their rough night at work, but just—what things have been like in general. Why they’re here, doing this today.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “I’ll just—” Letting the sentence hang, he hops out of the bed and makes his way to the windows. In an all-too-familiar routine that feels strange and new this morning, Dean pulls the blackout curtains and tucks them in around the edges of the windowsill. He can hear Cas’ hum of relief from across the room and that, at least, makes sense. “You set an alarm?”

“My phone. Set yours too,” Cas insists, and while the room has gone completely dark now, Dean can still make out the shape of him snuggling down underneath the blankets. 

“Sure, Cas.” _Dean_ isn’t the one who struggles to wake up on time (all he needs is his usual four hours), but if it makes Cas feel better, Dean will do anything.

He flips on the overhead fan before sliding back into bed, previously body-warm spot now cool between the sheets. The bed is part of why they chose his place instead of Cas’—Dean has _nice_ sheets and a sweet memory foam mattress, because if he’s spending limited time in bed, he’s damn well going to get the most out of it while he’s there. It’s usually his favorite place on the planet to be, but today, that feels like an understatement.

All of that _stuff_ Dean usually worships and looks forward to enjoying feels completely secondary to having _Cas_ between the sheets with him. And _that_ is an effect Dean severely underestimated. Suddenly, he can’t freaking _wait_ to get close to him, to touch him—his skin is practically humming with need, arms nearly _aching_ for it. 

Except that Cas is still all the way on the other side of the mattress, and that—that is not what this was supposed to be about. Dean clears his throat anxiously and pipes up, “So...how do we…?”

The shapeless sort of blob that is Cas shifts under the actual covers _and_ the cover of the darkness, but Dean thinks he can see him shrug. He’s also pretty sure he clocks the barest outline of a familiar smile as his own eyes begin to adjust. 

“Have you never had the ‘top or bottom’ conversation before? Seems unlikely, considering your record.” 

“Cas,” Dean protests, now grateful for the darkness and the way it hides his blush. “That’s got jack shit to do with cuddling.” 

“I have no strong preferences either way for either thing,” Castiel continues, conversationally. He slides his arms out from under the sheets and presses them towards the ceiling, the long line of his body stretching languidly while Dean’s mouth waters. “Just so long as we’re holding each other.” 

“Oh,” Dean manages, the cheap joke he was about to make dying on his tongue. _Why the fuck aren’t they touching yet?_ “Well c’mere, then.” 

Almost hesitantly, Castiel scoots closer. It’s almost comical how long it takes him, Dean’s king-sized mattress never before having felt so big. But then Cas is there, eyes big and bright and blue, even in the dark.

“Now what?” he asks. “Do we—” 

With Dean still propped on one elbow, Cas tries his best to fit their bodies together, but his attempts aren’t anything approaching smooth. He slides an arm underneath Dean and tries to tuck his head into his shoulder, but Dean accidentally moves at the same time, knocking their foreheads together.

“Ow, fuck,” he complains, falling onto his back (and Cas’ hand) as he rubs at the sore spot above one eye.

“Damn it, Dean,” Castiel curses, tugging his trapped arm free before doing the same. 

“Okay, let’s—” This time Dean rolls forward, attempting to pillow his head on Castiel’s shoulder, somewhere near the crook of his neck. Only, once _again_ they move at exactly the wrong time and as such, Cas narrowly avoids a direct shot to the groin. Dean’s knee winds up connecting with his hip instead. 

_“Oof,_ Dean, what the fuck? Have you never touched another person before?”

“Have _you?_ Jesus,” Dean grumbles, flopping onto his pillow and vaguely contemplating giving up. 

Castiel sighs, “One of us needs to take charge. Roll over and face the windows, stay on your side.”

“Why d’you get to be big spoon?” Dean complains, but in actuality, he’s relieved, blowing out a grateful breath as he compliantly flips over. Having Cas wrapped around him _and_ getting to keep his questionably-controlled dick pointed in the opposite direction is best-case scenario, honestly. 

Even still, Dean can’t help the way he automatically tenses as Cas slides down into the space behind him. He swallows roughly as Cas’ arm tentatively snakes its way around his waist, bristling a little when Cas’ hot breath puffs along the nape of his neck. But then—every inch of Cas’ firm, toned chest is settling flush against his back, his best friend curving himself shamelessly around Dean’s ass and tangling their legs together in a way Dean _never_ would have dared to do.

He’s suddenly incredibly glad that Cas elected to be the big spoon—for more than one reason. 

“Damn,” Dean murmurs, the word escaping from between his lips in a rush before he can stop it. It’s just— _fuck,_ Cas feels _so_ good.

“You’re shaking,” Castiel murmurs, soothing the hand that’s draped across Dean’s tummy up his chest, fingers then skating carefully back down his arm. 

The shaking isn’t all Dean’s body seems to be getting wrong—the hair on his arms is standing right on end, too. As if that wasn’t enough, his heart is pummeling the inside of his ribcage and his breath is coming short. Geared up and relaxed at the same time—it’s like he’s at work, running for an activated emergency pull cord only to discover that it was a false alarm. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, mostly into the stuffing of his pillow, since that’s where his flushed face is currently buried. “Cas, I didn’t—holy shit, why does it feel so good?” As soon as he says that, Dean feels Castiel almost melt behind him, not having realized he was so stiff. Worried, he extracts himself from the pillow and twists to look over his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you were upset, Dean,” Cas replies, exasperated. His eyes are wide and peering back at Dean in concern. “You went completely rigid, and to be honest, you still sound like you’re on the verge of a panic attack.”

“I’m not,” Dean huffs defensively, although he makes a concerted effort to get his shit together and speak more normally. “I just—I was thinking about all the reasons we maybe shouldn’t do this, and I forgot how much I _miss_ touching people. Is touching people always so good?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean settles back down, wiggling his body so that it’s pressed tightly up against Castiel’s once again and tugging his hand back across his belly. Without thinking, he covers Cas’ hand with his own and threads their fingers together, sighing happily at all the contact.

Thing is, he’s _not_ exaggerating. The warm, wonderful presence of Castiel’s body, the sweet sensation of his naked skin stretching all along the length of Dean’s—it’s almost fucking orgasmic. And having those strong, thick arms wrapped around him, _holding,_ squeezing him tight? Thank God Cas can’t see his face or Dean would have to come up with some lie about seasonal allergies or his dusty ceiling fan to explain what the hell is going on with his watery eyes. 

“No,” Castiel replies softly, and Dean makes a pathetic little nose as his friend scoots even closer. “It’s not.” The back of Cas’ calf slides slowly up Dean’s shin, Cas’ nose tucked firmly just below Dean’s hairline. His grip tightens, and Dean never, ever, _ever_ wants to let him go. 

There’s something else going on that’s pretty fucking obvious, considering their proximity. Cas is at _least_ half-hard against his ass, but Dean elects to ignore that reality for now because— _fuck._ The instant endorphin release from all the touching, the gratifying heat of their bodies pressing together—Dean’s pretty damn sure it’s a basic biologic reaction to being touch-starved that any human being would find impossible to suppress or prevent. It doesn’t mean anything other than Cas _really_ needs this, just like he does.

“This is really pathetic,” Dean manages to say, and Castiel nods vigorously in agreement against the space between his shoulder blades. 

“Yes,” he replies. It comes out sounding more like a growl that goes _straight_ to an increasingly pitiable Dean’s downstairs. “And yet, I’m enjoying being pathetic immensely.”

 _Down, boy,_ Dean chastises himself, leaning back into Cas for some subtle reassurance that he’s still not the only one struggling. Satisfied, he refocuses on all the other sensations, the pure relief of being held in someone else’s arms, and the low hum of arousal becomes easy to ignore. 

And just like that, Dean feels incredibly sleepy. Warm, safe, cared for—the satisfying way Cas’ arms and legs are moving gently against his—Dean wants to sink into this moment, drown in it and exist only here forever. As if Cas can sense his shift (or maybe it’s the content sigh Dean accidentally releases), he hums and presses a soft kiss to the back of Dean’s neck.

“Sleep, Dean.” 

“Night, sunshine,” Dean mumbles. He’s already halfway unconscious, deep enough into the dark that the strangeness of Cas _kissing_ him goodnight rolls right off his back. “‘S’was a good idea.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

Their next attempt goes more smoothly, and so does the time after that. Pretty soon, it’s like they’ve never spent a night apart. Every morning after finishing work, Dean and Cas’ new routine becomes thus: strip, shower, snuggle, and Dean _loves_ it. Loves every unmanly second he spends desperately clinging to his best friend while they do absolutely nothing but _sleep_.

Sweet, glorious, _satisfying_ sleep that leaves Dean waking more rested and happy than he’s felt in years. Maybe ever.

He’s not always the little spoon, either. Even though—if push came to shove—Dean can now admit (in the privacy of his own head) that being nestled with Cas curled around him is definitely his favorite position. But it’s not their _only_ position, and Dean likes the rest, too. 

He likes waking up with his face tucked into Cas’ shoulder, his chest overheated and damp where it’s pressed flush against Castiel’s back. He likes falling asleep with Cas tucked underneath his chin, whispering about work-related bullshit as they run hands all over each other’s backs. He even likes those rare times they wake starfished out in their own spaces, hands tangled somewhere in the middle, Cas’ ankle hooked around his, just to keep some kind of contact. 

They just _fit._

They fit _so_ well, in fact, that after less than two weeks of platonically snoozing together, Dean and Cas are spending every night _off_ curled around each other in Dean’s bed, too. Less than three weeks in and Cas has basically dropped even the pretense of wanting to sleep at his own house. By their one month snuggle-versary, Cas is essentially only dropping by his place for fresh clothes or a video game or more of his super-expensive personal care shit that he’s slowly migrating to the top of Dean’s dresser (and thinks Dean doesn’t notice). 

And that’s is all _more_ than fine with Dean, since he hates Cas’ roommates anyway, especially _Meg._ Which is only _slightly_ to do with the fact that Meg is a bitch and a skank and a nurse herself, and Dean doesn’t want Cas getting any ideas about trading him out for a more convenient, local option. If he has to move Cas fully into his house to preserve this freaking incredible thing they have going, that’s not exactly a damn hardship.

In fact, Dean can’t quite figure out why they _haven’t_ talked about moving in together before now. Seems kind of weird, with how much time they spend together, but Dean always figured Cas wanted his own space. Plus, Dean had Sammy taking up a Sasquatch’s share of the place, at least for the first year he knew Cas. 

Although, in retrospect, Dean can admit that even back then, Sam was already itching to move out. 

Whatever—doesn’t really matter, because Dean has Cas now. Has him waiting patiently in the parking garage while Dean finishes charting, has him starting the coffee in the mornings while Dean’s still in the shower (because Cas always lets him go first). Sure, he and Cas have always been tight, but Cas is the _best_ freaking roommate Dean’s ever had. He picks up takeout and has it ready at home when Dean walks in after pulling an extra shift, and he washes the sheets while Dean’s gone. After nights or days when Cas is the one picking up extra time, Dean meets him at the door with beer and his famous homemade burgers, and Cas _always_ rewards him with the biggest goddamn smile Dean’s ever freaking seen. 

It’s been the best month of Dean’s entire life, and he’s suddenly (selfishly) not sure he wants the pandemic to end. Doesn’t think he even _could_ go back to trolling bars for one-night-stands and is honestly, genuinely considering giving up sex forever if it means he can keep platonically cuddling his best friend on his sweet memory foam mattress. If there _ever_ existed a time when Dean was able to convince himself he was not actually head-over-heels in love with Castiel, those days are well and truly over.

He’s happy with the way things are, though. Whatever Cas wants, Dean will give it to him. Whatever he doesn’t, Dean doesn’t even _care._ All this dopamine and serotonin flooding his brain on a regular basis is really doing a number on his mood—Dean’s _happy_ all the damn time. He just wants to keep it, and with first-round vaccinations starting up any day now, it almost feels like what he and Cas have has a quickly-approaching expiration date. 

At some point, _that_ particular worry starts to seep into Dean’s daily daydreams. Not that daydreaming about Cas is anything new, but up until now, it’s all been pretty standard stuff.

Like when he’s swiveling in his chair at the nurse’s station, theoretically charting but actually fantasizing about the way Cas’ warm, thick thighs feel against his. _For example._ Or when he’s waiting outside the bathroom in 324B as Mrs. Baker tries to pee for the eighth time since his shift started at seven, definitely not hiding the bladder scanner behind his back so that no one can “borrow” it in the meantime. He _should_ be worrying about the straight-cath he’s almost definitely going to be doing next, or the slew of meds he has due in an hour, but instead, Dean’s imagining Cas’ arm wrapped tight around his waist, thumb stroking his belly aimlessly. 

There’s also the time that Charlie the pharmacy tech catches Dean standing stupidly in front of the Omnicell, staring blankly at the timed-out screen because he’s lost up in his head. In his defense, anyone would zone out if they were suddenly reminded of the way the swell of Cas’ ass feels when it’s tucked tight against their groin.

Alright, Dean’s _willing_ to give up sex if he has to, but sue him, one particular part of his body still wishes things were different. Not enough to rock the boat, though.

Rogue dick issues aside, if _those_ were the only daydreams Dean’s little thing with Cas was spawning, he wouldn’t complain. Hell, dreaming about Cas makes his shift go faster—nothing to bitch about there. Problem is, recently, his insecurities have become a bit...intrusive. Presenting themselves as dramatic interruptions to his usual mental scenarios, and that is not nearly as fun as fantasizing about the time he woke up with his face smushed so tightly against Cas’ bicep he could _taste_ his skin.

No, _that’s_ a dream and _this_ shit is more like a nightmare, but no matter how many times Dean tries to tamp down and repress his fears, they just keep on popping up. He’ll be happily changing some IV tubing, minding his own business when the Cas in his fantasy suddenly realizes _exactly_ how depraved Dean’s thoughts about him go and leaves forever. Or, alternatively, the pandemic ends, the two of them head to a bar like they used to, and on their _very_ first night out Cas finds some nice girl and proposes marriage.

Each anti-fantasy Dean has is some variation on that theme—but they all end the same. Cas bails, and Dean’s heart gets broken in the process.

The _stupid_ thing is, real-life Cas isn’t giving Dean _any_ signs that he’s sick of their arrangement or in any way ready to bolt—completely the opposite, really. _Cas_ is the one moving himself into Dean’s damn house. _Cas_ is the one wearing Dean’s secret frilly apron to bake cookies in Dean’s kitchen on their off-weekend. _Cas_ is the one sticking his toothbrush in the cup next to Dean’s and acting totally nonplussed that his best friend wakes up hard as a rock _against him_ almost every morning.

So maybe it’s Dean’s own buried bullshit forcing its way to the surface to torture him. Maybe he just needs to knock off the self-sabotage and enjoy the good thing he’s got instead of dwelling on when it’s inevitably going to end. ‘Cause who the fuck says it has to end? If Cas is happy and he’s happy, well, they’ll just keep making it up as they go. If that scenario ends with the two of them platonically sharing pushed-together hospital beds in a smelly long-term care center at eighty years young, Dean can think of worse ways to close out his golden years. 

Today, like most other days, those are the things dictating the thoughts that occupy Dean’s mind as he closes out his shift. Stuffed into the closet masquerading as a med room, Dean routinely recites his report for the oncoming nurse taking his assignment into the voice recorder. As he’s finishing, Cas bumbles into the room, arms full of IV bags and a handful of syringes that he’s clearly behind on administering. Even mostly-hidden behind his face shield and mask, his eyes look exhausted. 

Dean clicks the recorder off and slides it down the counter. “Hand it over,” he demands, pointing at Cas’ stuff while opening and closing his fingers to punctuate the request. 

“I’ve got it,” Castiel grumbles, fumbling his shift notes out of his pocket and making a futile attempt to smooth them out 

“What, you got narcs in there or something?”

“No. I just—I’ve got it.” 

“Hey,” Dean says, stepping forward and brushing ungloved fingers over the shell of Cas’ ear, because fuck if he’s touching that gown he didn’t take off—Cas seems frazzled, who the fuck knows where that thing’s been? “Since when do we not help each other? I didn’t know you were having a bad night, you didn’t say anything.” 

Head down, Castiel just shrugs. He paws through his crap for another silent minute before sighing and dragging a hand over his forehead. Totally ineffective, because it just drags his shield off-center, which frustrates him enough to provoke a little growl.

“Dude,” Dean persists.

Castiel finally looks up, and he seems incredibly weary. Dean raises his eyebrows, waiting. “You’re right,” Cas relents with a sigh. “I—I’ve been having some very... _intrusive_ thoughts. It occurred to me recently that I’ve been...stifling you, somewhat. I thought perhaps I should give you some space, at least at work.” 

“Whoa,” Dean replies, wishing more than anything that they were both actually _done_ for the night. Then they could rip off all this protective gear and he could see Cas’ face, his expression. “Did I do something to give you that idea?”

“No,” Castiel admits. “But—”

“But nothing, buddy,” Dean continues, reaching for the pile of IV supplies Cas now has piled haphazardly on the countertop. This time, he doesn’t wait for permission. “I like having you around, sunshine. And I know you have charting to enter, so I’m gonna help you finish. If I have to break out the restraints to do it, then so be it.” He smiles his brightest, most charming smile, even though Cas can only see his eyes and the telling lines around them. “Room?”

“316A,” Castiel replies tiredly, and Dean feels relieved that he doesn’t argue or push the issue. “He’s—”

“I’m done, I’ll look it up—do your thing.” 

Resisting the urge to wrap Cas in a hug, Dean gathers his supplies and leaves the room, beelining for Cas’ section without a second thought. He takes care of Cas’ final patient and tucks him in to sleep, just in time for the lab tech to come in and unceremoniously flip on every light in the room, blinding both of them. 

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes as the patient groans and pulls the blanket over his head, oxygen tubing and all. He shrugs at the tech before heading out, removing all the PPE but his surgical mask before washing his hands. It’s one of the few days he manages to beat Castiel out to the garage, barely stopping in the locker room to grab his things. It’s _cold_ outside—a few snowflakes even drifting down from gray skies—and Dean wants the car to be warm for Cas. It’s the least he can do. 

When Cas slides into the passenger’s seat less than fifteen minutes later, he looks all the worse for the wear. There are bags under his eyes (more than usual) and he really seems dead on his feet. There are pressure marks on his face from the protective gear, marks Dean has too, but Cas just radiates _misery_ today. 

“What’s wrong, sunshine?” Dean asks, doing his best to sound genuine and not like he’s teasing, for once. Reflexively, he reaches across the bench seat and grabs Cas’ hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. It’s not something he would have dared to do even a month and a half ago, but now, it feels almost wrong not to provide comfort through touch.

Blinking, Castiel glances down in apparent surprise at the easy display of affection and solidarity. Right in front of Dean’s eyes, his whole body visibly relaxes. Cas sinks down into the seat with a quiet hum. He looks up at Dean, eyes soft and appreciative, and _very_ seriously— _so_ seriously it makes Dean blush—says, “Now? Nothing at all.” 

And _maybe_ it’s all the thinking Dean’s been doing recently, all the worrying. _Maybe_ it’s because Dean has already decided that Cas pretty much _has_ to be as on board with this whole thing as he is, based on how he’s acting. Maybe it’s because Dean _physically_ reached across the divide between them for the first time, definitively stepping over a line he didn’t even realize needed to be crossed. 

Whatever the driving force is, _something_ changes.

In that moment, in the front seat of Dean’s car, in the freezing and half-empty hospital garage, _something_ shifts. The air between them almost seems to crackle and snap with energy and potential, and the way Cas holds Dean’s gaze makes him more anxious than ever to get them both home.

 _Home? My house._ Dean automatically corrects himself in his head, but even as he does, it feels wrong. It _is_ wrong. His house only feels like a home anymore because _Cas_ is in it. Maybe that’s always been the case. Dean swallows heavily and can’t decide whether he hopes Cas doesn’t notice, or that he does. “Wanna go snuggle?” he asks quietly, and the question feels more weighted than usual.

For his part, Cas never looks away, not even for a beat. And because he’s Cas, instead of answering like a normal person, he licks his lips and nods, as if Dean didn’t have enough mixed signals to interpret _._

Not much Dean can do with that besides drive the fuck home as fast as humanly possible, so that’s exactly what he does.

The weird energy follows them out from the car and into Dean’s foyer, as they strip down silently and toss everything fabric into the washing machine hiding in the hall closet. Shoes go into a bin and get sprayed with sanitizer; Cas takes care of that while Dean adds vinegar and starts the clean cycle. When he turns around, Cas is _right_ behind him, all mostly-naked six feet of him, completely up in Dean’s space. 

His blue eyes are clearer than they were in the garage, and Dean knows Cas well enough to recognize his second wind when he sees it. Though what that means in _this_ context—he’s not entirely sure he even wants to guess.

“Shower?” Cas says, face giving away nothing, and Dean still can’t figure out why he’s only an inch or two away. Yeah, they’ve been...doing what they’ve been doing, but _this—_ this is new. The tension between them sizzles—or maybe that’s Dean’s wistful imagination, he’s having a hard time telling what’s up or down at this point. Real or not, it still makes the butterflies in Dean’s stomach flutter, makes his heart pound a little harder in his chest.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean replies, mostly because duh, showering is what they do _every_ day after work. Admittedly, he usually lingers under the water on the mornings after night three, because he’s not heading back in later, but today, Dean doesn’t exactly feel like taking his time. He wants to get cleaned up and back to Cas, to dig into whatever this changing thing is between them as fast as fucking possible. “You—you gonna grab something to eat? Bring it up? We can watch the rest of Bridgerton,” Dean offers, somewhat unsure. 

Now that the novelty of what they’re doing in bed has worn off, on most post-shift mornings he and Cas eat and cuddle in bed while binging something trashy. Bridgerton is just the latest, and Dean will go to his grave before he admits to anyone besides Cas that he digs it. 

But today, Cas’ eyes narrow, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say they fucking _twinkle._ “No,” Cas says decisively. “I saw you scarf three pieces of pizza not two hours ago, you’re not hungry.” 

Damn, Cas knows him well. “Okay, but you—”

“I’m hungry,” Castiel replies, licking his lips. His gaze tracks briefly down to Dean’s mouth in a way it _never_ has, at least not that Dean’s noticed ( _he would have fucking noticed)_. “But not for food.” 

_Holy fuck._

Before Dean can even begin to formulate a reply, Cas is grabbing his hand and dragging him up the stairs. Feeling dazed, Dean follows, half-tripping over himself and the hardwood steps to keep up with Cas’ breakneck pace. It’s difficult not only because Dean has no damn clue what’s going on and he wasn’t prepared to _race,_ but because Cas’ ass is shifting in his loose white boxers _right_ in front of Dean’s damn eyes, all tight and perky and _God help him, Dean is going to hell._

By the time he makes it to the top of the steps, Dean’s got a whole new set of problems and they’re all in his own pants. He’s glad that he’s wearing tight boxer-briefs that sort of... _hold steady,_ so to speak, but if Cas looks down, there’s not going to be any hiding what’s happening. With the weird way Cas is acting and the shit that he’s said, though— _maybe_ —maybe he won’t mind.

“Cas, what—”

Dean barely gets those words out as he’s yanked around the corner, having to grab at the top of the banister for balance as his bare feet skid on the uncarpeted floor. Undeterred, Cas doesn’t so much as hesitate in his quest to drag Dean wherever the fuck they’re going. Presumably, the master bedroom, since that’s where they end up. Here is where they’d normally split and pare off, Dean heading into the shower and Cas either grabbing some food or going to read a book in what they’ve dubbed the “contamination chair of shame” in the corner of the room. 

Today, he does neither, circling around to grab Dean by the hips before herding him forward into the ensuite. “Cas, hey, what the—”

No answer. Once inside the bathroom, Castiel closes the door and turns on the shower. It’s an oversized glass monstrosity that took Dean and Sam an entire fucking weekend to install and was worth _every_ cut and bruise Dean sustained doing it. Cas turns the dial to what Dean suspects is _“actual Hellfire”,_ because it’s only seconds before the mirrors are clouding over with steam. 

Dean flips on the fan. “Cas,” he tries again, raising one hand and his eyebrows in confusion. “What the fuck are we doing?” 

Cas is busy sticking his hand under the spray and adjusting the temperature, but he rounds on Dean just as soon as he manages to finish that full sentence. 

“Yes,” he replies, crowding Dean up against the door, forearm resting casually next to Dean’s head and lips so close, Dean could just—“What _are_ we doing?” 

_Focus,_ Dean tells himself. “Wait—what?” 

In front of him, Castiel drags his bottom lip between his teeth as he glances down, giving Dean a quick and dirty once-over. It’s only then that Dean realizes how purposeful Cas is being about maintaining those last few inches between their lower bodies and why, and all his brain can come up with is, _holy fuck, is this really happening?_

“I’m starting to think that perhaps I have not been clear enough about some things,” Castiel begins. That’s nice and all, and Dean definitely wants to know what Cas has to say, but between the hot steam and the musky heat coming off of Cas’ _very distracting_ torso, he’s not positive that he can even begin to think at _all,_ so this is probably not the best time for Cas to start hoping for clarity. 

“Um,” Dean starts, pausing to swallow thickly. “I—”

“Why have we not had sex?” Castiel asks bluntly, and Dean’s struggling-to-cope brain stutters to a grinding halt. 

“Just a second,” he manages, holding up a finger in front of Castiel’s face. They’re close enough together that Cas automatically goes a little cross-eyed trying to look at it and that, at least, breaks the weird spell that’s rendering Dean totally useless. “What the fuck are you talking about? _Sex?”_

Castiel’s face goes from slightly confused to outright pouting as he takes a giant step backward and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve been thinking about it all night,” he says in a rush, and to Dean’s ear, it sounds like he’s confessing. “I keep—I _thought_ my intentions had been very clear, and you always seem…” Castiel trails off and gestures towards the lower half of Dean’s body with an expression that makes Dean flush and put both hands in front of his crotch.

“Dude,” he protests. 

Cas doesn’t seem to take notice, though, ignoring Dean completely in favor of resting his palms on the vanity and sighing. “You know that I—that sexual attraction has always been confusing for me. I don’t feel that way easily. Not many people our age are willing to be patient enough to pursue a romantic relationship and wait around while I ‘figure out’ whether they’re the exception or the rule.” Cas glances up and his tone drops ruefully. “For what it’s worth, they’re _all_ the rule.” 

“I didn’t think you felt—I didn’t think you were into that stuff at all.” 

Catching his eyes in the mirror, Castiel stares back at Dean in disbelief. “I find it hard to believe you didn’t _feel—”_

“Okay, yeah, but Cas, people get morning wood. People get excited and don’t actually want to have sex. I wasn’t about to make you uncomfortable just because—”

“I can assure you, Dean, your lack of inaction has lead to me experiencing the maximum discomfort I can _possibly_ imagine.” 

“That’s not _my_ fault,” Dean shoots back, frustrated enough that he sort of forgets that they’re both mostly-naked in a freaking bathroom. He grabs Castiel by the shoulder, tugging at him until he turns around, surprised to find him glaring. “Dude, are you serious? You’re mad at me for—for not making a _move_ on you? My best friend in the whole freaking universe, who I _thought_ was asexual and was trying _really damn hard—”_ Dean pauses here for effect, nodding emphatically and gesturing to his _own_ groin this time, like an idiot. “ _Really_ hard to respect the hell out of your boundaries!”

Cas’ face softens, thank fuck. He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the gel he put in it last night when they were getting ready for work. Dean remembers wanting to do that himself then, and the idea that he maybe _could have,_ could have been touching Cas and like, _kissing him_ all this time suddenly hits him like a freight train.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says helplessly, dropping his hands to his sides. “I thought the easiest way to tell you that I was—that I’ve _grown_ interested in you was to show you. I thought—I’ve seen the way you pick up women and men in bars, I mistakenly assumed it would be that easy. That you’d—”

“Treat you like a dirty bar hookup?! Cas, no offense, but are you nuts? Have you been _drinking_ the Lysol?”

“I’m _apologizing,_ you assbutt,” Castiel snaps. “I’ve never _done_ this before. Any ‘hookups’ I’ve had were relationships that began with typical expectations, and even those are few in number. You—you mean too much to me,” he finishes softly. “I couldn’t bring myself to ask.” 

Shocked into silence, Dean just stands there for a long moment, letting all of this new information settle into his brain. “You were afraid to ask if I had any romantic or sexual feelings towards you, so instead of trying, you opted to shove your ass up against my dick and see if you could shortcut the conversation.”

“You reacted as expected,” Castiel unhelpfully points out. “That’s why I’ve been increasingly confused about it all. I thought for sure that if you were attracted to me, then the cuddling would naturally lead to sex.” 

“Cas,” Dean blurts out, “ _Ugh.”_ He shakes his hands out and runs in place a little, slapping his face because this _cannot_ be happening. “I didn’t want to _lose you_ as a friend! I didn’t want to cross some line you didn’t wanna cross and—you know what? This is stupid. Fuck it.” 

Dean steps forward, grabbing Cas by the waist and crashing their bodies together, catching Cas’ bottom lip in between his and holding on. And just because he deserves it, he gets his free hand right up into Cas’ crazy hair, grabbing on a _little_ too tight. 

In his arms, Cas freezes for all of one whole second before he lets out a happy little moan and melts, this time into Dean. 

“We’re a couple of real dumbasses,” Dean mutters into Cas’ mouth, both of them seemingly unwilling to stop pressing their lips together, sweet and soft. 

“Just the first thing,” Cas replies, getting a hand on each side of Dean’s head and tipping it this way and that, however he wants it. “Less dumb, less ass.” 

It’s Dean’s turn to freeze—pulling back just enough to look his friend in the eye. “A couple?” Castiel looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot on the planet, and fair enough. “Okay,” Dean says with a shrug. “Now I don’t have to worry ‘bout who’s going to change my sheets once quarantine is over.” 

“We’ll set up a schedule,” Castiel replies, and before Dean can argue, he’s diving back in for more kisses. Walking Dean back against the towel bar, Cas sweeps an eager tongue through his mouth, making Dean’s knees go weak as he remembers how much better that particular thing is in real life than in any of his fantasies. Good enough that if Cas asked, Dean would be willing to sign a binding contract forcing him to change their sheets daily for the rest of his life, just to keep it going.

_Totally worth it._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut ahead

“Hey, wait a sec,” Dean says suddenly, putting a hand on Cas’ chest to keep him at bay. The feel of Cas’ pec flexing underneath his palm nearly distracts him from finishing the sentence, but Dean (just barely) keeps it together. “How’d we end up in the bathroom, anyway?” 

Cas just blinks up at him innocently. “I wasn’t entirely sure that we’d be able to resolve this with words,” he says. “You’re very bad at communicating.”

“ _I’m—_ ”

“I thought simply taking my clothes off and inviting you into the shower might have moved things along in a more productive manner.” 

“Well hot damn,” Dean replies, jaw dropping a little as he stares at Cas with newfound appreciation. And yeah, a shitload of poorly-concealed lust. “And then what?” 

“Then?” Castiel echos. His brow furrows and his head tips to the side as he considers Dean. Dean assumes that he looks pretty eager, what with his intentional eyebrow raise and the way he’s biting his lip. Maybe he _is_ shit at talking, but he’s pretty sure his current expression is _communicating_ just fine. 

_Come on, Cas,_ he thinks, letting the corner of his lips quirk up in a smirk. _Tell me more, tell me more._

Dean grins as he sees the realization dawning over Castiel’s face, sunrise after a dark night, so beautiful that he bites back the snarky, “How’s _that_ for freaking communication?” threatening to slide off of his tongue. It would be a classic Dean Winchester move to ruin a moment like this with a stupid joke, but not this time. It all seems a lot less amusing when Cas steps forward anyway, fitting their bodies together so perfectly, so _tightly,_ that the boxers they’re still wearing feel wholly irrelevant.

Cas’ arm slides over Dean’s shoulder, around the back of his neck, and Cas kisses him chastely before saying, “ _Then_ I thought I’d get on my knees and—assuming you hadn’t run screaming from the room by this point—I thought I’d attempt a blowjob.” 

Dean couldn’t stop the soft smile and sentimental heart-eyes he knows he’s sporting if he tried. Cas’ clumsy dirty talk would be a non-starter coming out of anyone else’s mouth, but on him— _knowing_ him—it’s crazy endearing. 

“We should definitely do that,” Dean breathes, licking his lips. “Just to—you know, be _sure_ we’re communicating.” Cas lights up, a smile breaking across his face before he steps away with Dean’s wrist locked tight in his grasp, tugging the door to the shower open and hurling them both inside. “Whoa, Cas! Clothing?” 

“They’ll dry,” Castiel mutters, pressing Dean back against the steam-warmed tile and kissing his mouth, hot and demanding. The door clicks closed behind them, all the steam trapped inside now, and Dean kind of feels like he’s in some kind of dream-fantasy sequence. Instead of pinching himself, he pinches Cas’ ass, completely satisfied with the way Cas makes a half-protest, half-encouraging groan into his mouth. 

And if Dean thought that the platonic cuddling and snuggling was good for his touch-starved, desperate-for-connection body, this is next-fucking-level. The heat of Cas’ palms skating over his skin feels like actual tracts of fire. The hard line of Cas’ body urged tight against his is pure, sweet relief that Dean will never, _ever_ get enough of, comfort he wants to claw at to keep close or break open and crawl inside. 

“Cas, stay,” he protests as his friend steps back, even if it’s less than a foot of distance and only far enough for Cas to drop down on his knees. “Oh, fuck.” 

With the showerhead behind him and the stream pointing directly at the back of his head, Cas looks like something straight out of one of Dean’s favorite porn flicks. His hair gets soaked fast, and Cas doesn’t even try to keep the water from dripping down his face. He _does_ blink wide-eyed up at Dean with a kind of faux-innocence Dean would _never_ in a million years have guessed he was freaking _capable_ of, though. 

Cupping the side of his face, Dean fights the urge to tackle him to the ground. Only because, well, _ouch,_ and also Cas has clearly put some thought into this scene. So far, he did good—it’s _way_ too delicious to ruin.

“I’ve always thought you were smoking hot,” Dean says, ignoring the way Cas breaks character to look a little surprised. “But if _this_ Cas had ever appeared in any of my pre-sleep fantasies, I’m pretty sure it would have killed me.” 

Dean only clocks his mistake when Cas’ husky voice repeats, “Pre-sleep fantasies?” Thankfully, he doesn’t have time to get awkward or embarrassed because Cas follows that up with, “Let’s hope the real thing can compete.” 

And then he’s yanking Dean’s damp underwear down to his ankles, surging forward to close his mouth around Dean’s cock and _slide._ Now, Cas isn’t actually a pornstar, and Dean happens to know he isn’t packing a whole lot of practice at the thing he’s attempting to do, but he’s smart enough to use his hand for what his mouth can’t handle. That, plus the fact that it’s a dripping-wet _Castiel_ on his knees ( _on his fucking knees)_ in front of Dean well makes up for any flawed technique. 

Dean goes from mostly-hard to fairly certain every drop of blood in his body has fled to his dick in no time flat. He’s got no idea whether it’s because he hasn’t been touched by anything except his own hand in the better part of a year or because the person doing the touching is _Cas,_ but either way, this is not going to be a long production _._

It’s that thought that brings things to a grinding halt, because _no—_ no, as hot as this is, Dean wants more. Wants to hold Cas in his arms and feel Cas’ abs flex against his stomach as he tries not to come, wants to drag his nails down the length of Cas’ back and squeeze his thighs around his hips. He wants to _feel_ Cas, wants to do what they do _every_ fucking night but just— _more._ Don’t they deserve that, after all this time? 

“Stop, stop, Cas, stop,” Dean urges, gently working a thumb into Cas’ mouth and forcing him to break the seal he’s got going around Dean’s cock. When Cas glances up, Dean’s cock and thumb in his mouth and a gorgeous glaze in his eyes, Dean has to grab the base of his dick, doubling over and shoving Cas away so that he doesn’t come on the spot. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. 

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, worry with a hint of insecurity edging his tone. 

“Nothing,” Dean assures him quickly. “Opposite, c’mon get up.” He gets an arm around Cas’ ( _thick, bite-worthy)_ bicep and helps him to stand, leaning forward to nip at the bulging muscle because he wants to and hey, he _can._ Pulling back, he catches Cas with his bottom lip between his teeth, looking at Dean fondly. 

“I’m sorry if my skills were lacking. I’ll practice.” He drops the unnecessary apology so matter-of-factly that Dean can’t help but bark a laugh as he shakes his head. He wraps fingers around Cas’ hips and draws him in, spinning them so that Cas is the one up against the wall. Reaching over, Dean grabs his shampoo and squeezes some directly onto the top of Cas’ head before starting to work it into a lather. 

“No, sweetheart,” he says, relishing the way Cas’ eyes fall closed and he lets his head rest back against the wall. Dean’s fingers work their way through his hair and over his scalp, massaging vigorously until the suds are so wild they’re threatening to slide into Cas’ eyes. “You were fuckin’ perfect. Keep your eyes closed.” He maneuvers Cas back around until he’s directly under the spray once again, carding his hands through slippery locks until they’re fully rinsed and squeaky clean. 

_Never_ in Dean’s life has he turned down a blowjob in favor of _cleaning_ someone’s probably COVID-infested hair, but here he is. He’d love to pretend it’s for strictly practical and health-related reasons, but they’ve already kissed and touched and crossed way too many lines for Dean to even pretend to believe that one. The reality of that is kind of gross, so Dean opts to ignore it in favor of doing some diligent scrubbing now. 

He squeezes more body wash into his palm as Cas blinks through the waterfall of water still raining down over him. Seeing him like that, Dean can’t resist. He looks so beautifully inviting—Dean leans in to steal a brief kiss. “Can’t believe I can do that,” he says softly, beginning to soap Castiel’s body down using his hands. 

It surprises Dean when Castiel frowns, fiddling with his hands down by his belly button—not the response he expected. “Then why did you stop me?” 

Opening his mouth to answer, Dean abruptly thinks better of it, pushing a thigh between Castiel’s legs and yanking him in tight instead. Their bodies slip-slide against each other and just as Dean hoped he would, Cas grabs onto Dean’s shoulders for balance. The move results in maximum skin contact and Cas’ face only inches away—it sends tingles down Dean’s spine, all the way into his fingers and toes. 

“Because I want this,” he murmurs. “Want you so fuckin’ bad, pressed up against me and spread all over me. Wanna touch every inch of you all the goddamn time.”

“Oh,” Castiel replies, eyes heavy-lidded. “That—that is a very good reason.” Seemingly getting with the program, he extricates himself somewhat from Dean’s grasp—enough to grab his own hefty helping of body wash—and starts going to town on Dean. _Washing,_ that is. 

Soaping each other down at the same time is its own exquisite pleasure and torture, especially because Cas is shameless about touch now. Dean always thought he was, never hesitating to press a flat palm to Dean’s stomach while they spooned or to graze fingers over his thigh or whatever, but Cas’ version of cleaning up puts all of that to shame. Without hesitation, he’s scrubbing Dean’s armpits and sliding fingers between his legs, until the suds are freaking everywhere.

“Holy shit,” Dean sighs, struggling to focus on where he’s (supposed to be) rinsing Cas’ back. Instead, he tucks his face into the side of what might be the best-smelling neck on the planet while the pads of Cas’ fingers press unhesitantly between his cheeks and against his hole, rubbing like it’s something they do every damn day. “ _Cas_.” Dean brackets Cas’ ribs with his hands, steeling himself against the urge to press back on those clever fingers and let Cas end Dean’s good time right here, right now. He can’t imagine he’d actually have any regrets.

“We need to—” 

“Yes, quickly.”

The rest of their impromptu joint scrubbing session turns comparatively perfunctory. Both of them keep their hands to themselves as they finish soaping down and rinse, but their eyes stay locked on each other. By the time Dean is reaching past Cas to turn the shower dial to “off,” the air is practically vibrating between them, thick and hot with something far more powerful than water and steam. 

He shouldn’t be surprised when Cas falls into him before he can so much as get the shower door open, chest heaving and one big hand gripping the side of Dean’s face. Castiel kisses him, desperate like they’ve been apart for days and not minutes, crowding Dean up against the tile where his wet skin slips and makes it impossible to get any kind of grip or leverage. 

Cas pulls back suddenly, a wild sort of look in his eyes—almost panicked, in fact. Worried, Dean grabs his hand where it’s still on his face and squeezes.

“You okay, sunshine?”

“I’m attracted to you even when you’re wearing dirty scrubs, an isolation gown, and those disgusting booties,” Castiel says in a rush, like he’s making another terrible confession. “It’s _extremely_ confusing. I can’t even see your hair or the shape of your face beneath all of your PPE and yet, I have these barely-controllable urges to bend you over the nearest crash cart.”

Relieved, Dean laughs, moving their hands to Cas’ face so that he can stroke the cut of his jaw before kissing his knuckles. “Normal,” he says simply. “The other night, I saw you pulling meds and your scrubs were like, you know, doing that thing they do that I’m pretty sure was invented specifically to torture me.” 

Castiel’s brow furrows. “Falling down?” 

Dean laughs again. “Yeah, that. They have a tendency to—with your hipbones, I—you know what? Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I see that, and it’s like, _instant_ unwanted images of yanking them down to—” Dean cuts himself off, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. What he was about to say was pretty damn explicit, and who knows if Cas is ready for that kind of—

“What then?” Cas asks eagerly, ocean-blue eyes wide as his hips press teasingly into Dean’s, everything about his body language screaming _want_. They both calmed down somewhat during the actually _cleaning_ portion of their shower, but it takes less than a full minute of contact before they’re sliding together, achingly hard again. Not for nothing, but Dean is well aware of the fact that his own desire is written all over his face. 

Breath stuttering in his chest and mind not exactly in tip-top shape to think or process clearly, he swallows and tries to remember what the fuck Cas is even asking about. _Oh, fantasies. Right._ “Uh, that time? I—pretty sure I was imagining leaving a bite mark on your ass cheek, something that would bruise. Then, uh, eating you out until you screamed.” Dean can’t even bring himself to check Cas’ reaction, rushing to continue instead. “See? Totally unsanitary, definitely inappropriate for work, not to mention weird in context. Just to be clear, IV remdesivir doesn’t turn me on.”

When he finally digs up the courage to look Cas in the eye, Dean finds him smiling, apparently amused. “This is all very new to me,” Cas says. “To _want_ like this.” His smile fades but the glint in his eyes intensifies. “It’s much worse now that I know—”

“That I’d let you bend me over the crash cart?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies, nodding seriously. “Among other things.”

A shiver rips through Dean, and that sends Cas springing into action. His vibe shifts from “pizza man with extra sausage” to concerned mother hen in exactly no seconds flat. Before Dean can can so much as protest, there’s a towel draped over his head and another one patting up and down the length of his body, Castiel muttering under his breath and seemingly irritated that he only possesses two hands with which to dry things. 

Once there’s no longer a spec of water on him, Dean attempts to return the favor, to no avail. Cas blows him off, growling that he’s mostly dry already and ripping Dean’s towel over his body as quickly as possible while simultaneously yanking open the door.

“Get on the bed,” he demands, eyes dark and hair completely wild. Dean would love to pretend it’s the cold blast of air from the bedroom that sends a thrill through his system, but it’s the most obvious kind of lie. He’s supposed to be the voice of experience here, but Cas’ sexy confidence, his dick-hardening enthusiasm—Dean’s actually feeling worried _he_ might not measure up. 

_Fuck it,_ Dean thinks, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth. He’s got one never-fail card to play, and it’s his favorite. 

“Make me,” he says, voice low and rough, tipping his chin in Cas’ direction to clarify with surety that this _is_ the challenge it sounds like. 

He watches with satisfaction as Cas’ lips part around a silent, “ _Oh,”_ the way his expression shifts and changes into something both incredibly aroused and determined. _Fuck, yes._

Cas runs into him at nearly full-speed, forcing Dean backward with his momentum, and Dean only _barely_ resists, because that is not actually the point. He lets Castiel manhandle him onto the bed and goddamn _loves_ every second of it. Cas pins him down with a knee on each side of his hips, triumphantly caging Dean’s hands above his head with his own. He raises an eyebrow like, _See?_

Dean grins widely. “Something you wanted, Cas?”

Tendrils of Cas’ dark, wet hair are falling in his face and his cheeks are flushed with exertion and the residual heat from the shower. He’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen, lightning in a damn bottle.

“Yes,” he says, without even a trace of teasing or irony. “You.”

Dean’s heart explodes in his chest, an unexpected flood of emotion paralyzing his brain and his tongue. The only thing he can do is _act—_ break free from Cas’ grip, grab him, and kiss him hard. Cas _is_ right about one thing—he’s not the guy who talks, not the guy who shares his emotions, but this he can do, and he thinks Cas gets it. Dean does his best to pour all of his affection and love for Cas—everything he’s felt this whole damn time—into the press of their lips. 

He threads fingers into Cas’ hair, cups the back of his head tenderly but firmly, and kisses Cas like it’s the last thing they’ll ever do. When they finally separate (what might be hours later), Cas’ eyes are closed, dark splay of lashes against his cheeks, and his mouth stays open like he’s still imagining being connected to Dean. He hums softly and dips his head to rub his nose against Dean’s scruff.

Since they forgot to close the blackout drapes, soft morning light streams gently through the windows. It lights Castiel’s body where its draped across Dean’s in a particularly flattering and gentle sort of way, almost making him glow. And if Dean wasn’t sure before, that’s when he knows exactly how much he _loves_ Cas, because he could just lie here and stare at him and the way their legs are intertwined without needing anything more than that. 

_Cas,_ on the other hand, seems pretty damn determined to steer them back towards sexy times, and Dean can’t complain about that either. When Castiel rolls off and tugs him onto his side, Dean goes willingly. Their hips roll together almost instinctively, and Dean’s glad for the position Cas chose, because they’re pressed together nearly perfectly from shoulder to toes and both of them have their hands free.

In some ways, it’s like every other time they’ve been in Dean’s bed together. They’ve slept like this, face-to-face, more than once. They’ve touched so much of the same bare skin, traps and shoulders and biceps and backs, the coarse hair on Cas’ thighs, the light scruff on Dean’s neck. Dean knows where Cas has callouses on his heels from running, knows exactly what they feel like when Cas draws them up his shin. In turn, Cas’ hand is tracing the same constellation of freckles on Dean’s chest, is instinctively drawn to dancing over the scar on Dean’s knee from his ACL surgery. 

It’s all _so_ familiar—that same release of bonding endorphins rushing to the brain just from expectation and routine—the same _relief_ that comes from simply being held, from touching another person. But now, layered on top of all that is _fire_ and heat, pleasure and desire and so much more, flowing freely and unrestrained between them. 

Dean _can’t_ stop touching Cas, brushing his fingers and his lips over every inch of skin that’s close enough to do so. Can’t help but _groan_ at the way his body _lights up_ when Cas’ thigh slides between his own to fix their angle. Yeah, Cas getting a hand around both of them and using the soaking wet mess they’ve created to jack them off is fucking _great,_ but _goddamn,_ everything else is just as good. 

If Cas’ noises and his low murmurings of sweet nonsense are any indication, he feels very much the same, and that matters to Dean more than anything. He imagines his own expression is mirrored in Cas’ heavy-lidded, rosy, panting face, since his hungry desire to touch and feel is reflected back at him through Cas’ handsy actions. 

Their kisses turn open and sloppy, drifting from mouths down to necks and shoulders and back again. The stay like that, on their sides and in each other’s arms while the tension builds and builds, slow and steady and _hot._ By the time Dean’s orgasm is impossible to ignore on the horizon, their skin is sweaty practically everywhere they touch and Dean is shaking. 

“Cas,” he whispers, and Cas opens his eyes, slow and gorgeous, and Dean _has_ to kiss him, _has_ to. 

“Close,” Cas growls into his mouth and Dean nods, wrapping his own hand around the one Cas has already doing the lion’s share of the work.

“Together,” Dean encourages, quickening the pace. 

It’s like every point where their bodies are connected is on fire, tingling with joy and hope and pleasure. The crescendo is like a wave slowly building and then crashing, spreading delicious and satisfying over the sand. Dean’s not sure he’s ever had an orgasm like it before—the sensation prolonged and earth-shattering, leaving him gasping and shuddering with Cas clinging to him, destroyed and messy in the very same way.

“Holy shit,” Dean declares, once he catches his breath. The sheets beneath them are damp and there’s a mess of biblical proportions on both of their stomachs, but Dean can’t _imagine_ a world in which he’d want to do _anything_ right now but hold onto Cas like they’ve never done that before. “That was—”

“It’s never been like that before, for me,” Cas says bluntly. His voice is lower than usual, wrecked-sounding and hot as hell. Dean squeezes him tighter and wheezes a laugh. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You said it.” 

Rolling onto his back, Dean stares at the ceiling while Cas follows him down, pressing his face into Dean’s chest. He’s quiet while he works on recovering his senses. Cas feels better than ever in his arms, strong and real and he doesn’t have to say it—Dean already knows that Cas loves him too. Suddenly, he feels a lot less alone, just by realizing he never was. 

But he can’t just _ask_ Cas if he’s going to stay, can’t just come out and—

“Anyway,” Dean says out loud. “Once COVID is over, we’re totally going to desecrate the med room, right?”

Cas’ head pops up, apparently not expecting that particular question, and why would he be? Dean’s an idiot. But then he grins, something small and private and _evil_ , just for Dean. “After,” he agrees. “Whenever that may be.” 

_Oh yeah,_ Dean thinks, satisfied in more ways than he can list. They’re going to stay together.

**Author's Note:**

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